


Inheritance

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Pantheon [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John could try to explain, but he knew none of them would understand, just like he never had: he wasn't a hero. All he was was the only one left to pick up the pieces the heroes left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how close I came to calling this "Full Life Consequences". Badfic references seemed so appropriate for John.
> 
> I have alternate ideas for all the kids in this basic scenario... if I can get around to finishing them. XD They wouldn't really be compatible with each other, but it'd be the same essential setup, because hey, I admit it, I got Vriska issues. ;)

It'd used to be something cool people said just because they were cool.

Everyone knew it wasn't true, but they said it anyway, just because they were _that cool_. They'd say it and they'd walk away and everyone would watch them, and nod, and know it was a silly (but heroic) lie.

 _I'm not a hero_ , they always said.

As the crowd pressed in around him, John realized, for the first time, how it felt.

For the first time, he realized that they meant every word.

\--

John was not a hero. He could go down a whole list of things he wasn't, like a leader or a friend or useful in any way, but mainly, he was not a hero.

There'd been times he thought he was, because he was pretty stupid. Like when they'd won the game.

It'd been like a movie, he thought; really bumpy along the way, and scary at times, and he kind of wished he'd gotten killed a couple times less because it was kind of embarrassing, but they'd laugh at that, because it was over and it'd all worked out right and everyone was alive. On Earth, anyway, the meteor-strikes gone like they never existed, way better than Nanna had said, and what else could they have asked for? Well, there was Bec, and they hadn't seen Dave's Bro in a while, or his Dad or Rose's Mom, but they were probably around somewhere, fixed like everything else had been, and they could all go home, now; Jade could come and live with him and he'd have a sister and maybe keep his cool wind powers and--

He could barely even think about it now; it hurt to remember what an idiot he'd been. And he couldn't remember it, anymore, not without remembering the way he'd turned, and grinned, and watched Vriska appear behind Dave, drawing a knife across his throat.

John hadn't really been used to blood, yet, even though he'd seen it before. He'd learned better, since, but that spray of red-- candy-apple-fire-truck-wild-cherry red-- it was always in his head, every time he closed his eyes.

He was used to blood, now.

He'd thought that was a 'hero' thing, once.

\--

He avoided the cities; too much news, too many traitors, too many eyes. Too many to recognize him, to turn him in to the Pantheon. Or just to recognize him-- that alone could be even worse.

They'd gotten the stupid idea that he was a hero, that he could save them. It might be left over from that stupid game, because they were calling him 'Heir'-- he never had figured out what kind of stupid title that was. Or it might just because he was alive, despite all Vriska's attempts to kill him-- alive, and outside the cities, and sometimes he blew things up but it never seemed to do any good. There was always something to replace it, new factories built, shields reinforced, and John didn't know what he was doing, why he even bothered. Mostly he just seemed to-- to fall into things, plots and conspiracies and someone would be saying "Help us" and what else could he do but his best?

So he went around, just trying to survive, and he kept falling into mess after mess and not dying, and apparently that was all it took, these days; doing something other than what Vriska, what the Pantheon said, and not dying. That was rare enough and big enough and enough of a dream to hang your hopes on.

They didn't always recognize him at first, but if he hung around long enough, someone always did; and they'd get that look in their eyes, and John would want to die. To run away, to scream, to try to explain-- but he'd seen enough movies to know even that wouldn't work, that he'd still be a hero, just all tragic and modest and no one would understand. There wasn't any escaping it; they had him, now, and nothing short of dying or going over to Vriska would change their minds. And he had no intention of doing either.

But just once-- just _once_ \-- he wanted to look at one of those people who called him Heir, and tell them-- "Don't you get it? An Heir is someone who gets what's left when all the real heroes die."

\--

It had taken him a while to understand. But when he had, it had come in a flash.

Jade had screamed, leveling her gun-- but Vriska had just laughed, turning toward her, Dave held in front of her. She'd have to shoot Dave to get to her, and (he'd think later) she couldn't do that without admitting he was already gone; and how could she let that be true so quickly?

Most of the trolls had just been staring, then, just as shocked as he was-- but the emo one with the glasses darted toward Rose, distracting Jade as the muscley one came toward her. But the one in the red skirt had lunged at the wizard, screaming, chainsaw in hand, and Rose had turned toward him, eyes so tired from the battle, needles burning bright with purple fire.

John hadn't understood it, hadn't understood anything, there wasn't a single thought in his head. He wasn't sure he'd even breathed.

So he hadn't even blinked as Rose smiled, pressed her lips to the bridge of his nose, and pushed him off the edge of the battlefield.

It had been a long way to fall. He'd watched the purple fire, whipping in its now-familiar battle arcs, and eventually he realized: _They betrayed us._

And then the lightning was gone, and the thought came to him (though he didn't believe it): _I'm the only one left._

That was when he finally remembered what an Heir was.

And that was when the wind came to carry him down.

\--

It had taken him a while to believe it, but in the end, it was as simple as those two revelations: _They betrayed us. I am the only one left._

There was more, but that was all details. It'd been Vriska's idea, of course; reclaiming the trolls' rightful prize for them, setting them up as Earth's overlords (with her, of course, at the top). She'd taken Dave first, from behind, because if he'd had more than a second's warning that anything was going down, he'd have pulled out his timetables and all bets would have been off. Dave had saved them all so many times before-- Vriska was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

So Dave had to go first, and then she and whatever other jerks were in on her stupid treachery set in on the others. John had fallen, and they'd let him, either thinking they'd grab him later, or thinking he wasn't a threat-- Vriska would know, she'd killed him enough times before. Jade and Rose were way more dangerous; they'd taken care of them, and then they'd set it up.

A worldwide broadcast; John didn't know how they'd managed it, hadn't been in any mood to care. _People of Earth,_ he had heard Vriska say, even lying alone in the wilderness, staring up at the sky where the battlefield would have been if the wind hadn't carried him away. _We are your new Pantheon. You now belong to us._

John didn't know if they all were united; he'd seen Kanaya rising against them, for one, and he thought maybe he remembered seeing Terezi's mouth open and Karkat looking furious. Maybe they'd given in; maybe they were gone too. He didn't know details, though people in the cities might-- he just knew the Pantheon had taken over, and Earth was much the worse for it.

John hadn't had time to fight them. He hadn't even thought to try it. He'd known, somehow, even then, that his only shot was to hide.

And then the Scouts had been sent out, canvassing the countryside, and John knew it for sure: he was no hero.

\--

There was a girl in one of the satellite towns who looked just like a Jade who never smiled.

She'd been drinking, and he had a little too, though it never made him anything but sad-- and even though it was really the last thing worth worrying about anymore, he was still painfully aware that he was waaay under the legal age.

She'd told him about her father, kind and good and painfully normal, who'd put her on a bus out of Boston, whom she'd never seen since. And he had told her-- everything.

She hadn't believed most of it. Maybe she hadn't believed any of it, but she pretended to believe a little. And she'd brushed her hair away from her face, and blinked dizzily, and said, "I always wanted to ask you. Heir to what?"

He was so used to being the "Heir of Breath" that he hadn't really thought about it. Now, he couldn't stop.

He turned it over and over his head and could come to only one conclusion: he was the heir to them. To his family and his friends and all the good people who were dead for stupid reasons. And what did that mean?

It meant he had inherited their responsibilities-- all of them. They had been the only ones who could stop the Pantheon; it was why they were gone.

He was the only one left; he had to do it now. That, or die trying.

For a long time, he assumed that was all it had meant.

\--

It had been a Drone-factory outside Houston, of course. Just like Dave had described it, steel-barren and fire-hot, though it probably hadn't really been that bad when Dave was actually living around here. Now it was dirt and sun and sand, and steel towers rising in battered skeletons across the landscape, flanked by workers' huts and tents.

There was an anti-Pantheon group here, trying to organize, and they were getting killed by the Drones they were forced to help put together. John had wanted to blow the factory up anyway-- the things were a pain in the ass, armed and fast and all looking for him-- so he'd figured, two birds, one stone.

But there'd been Drones guarding the factory, of course, and more than he thought, and then the resistance had gotten involved and he'd been trying to save them too, and with one thing and another he'd ended up at the dead-end of a corridor, a Drone's gun pointed right at his heart.

He'd swallowed; he'd thought, _I'm sorry, guys,_ and let himself remember their faces. He tried not to when he could, because it always brought tears to his eyes, and it was so hard to run or fight or hide when you were crying, but it was too late now, much too late--

 _Jesus Christ, Egbert. How many times do I have to tell you, don't get your dumb ass killed?_

The gun crackled with electricity; John straightened, eyes suddenly dry, and thought, _No._

 _I made a promise. I'm not letting them down AGAIN._

And then he'd been behind the Drone, beating it to pieces with its own gun, and maybe he'd just been really quick about it, but-- no, that was bullshit. He knew the truth. He'd seen it done before-- when you'd watched Jade fight, the only way you could tell she wasn't in two places at once was by comparing her with Dave.

He'd always wondered what it was like. It was different than he'd ever dreamed.

That was the first time he noticed it; it wouldn't be the last. The residual powers were growing, slowly but surely, and John almost wondered if he could maybe pull this off.

"Hero," they were calling him, and he still knew it for a lie.

But even if the power and the responsibility was secondhand-- even if it wasn't his, and even if he didn't deserve it and didn't want it and never would-- maybe he could fill the role anyway.

\--


End file.
